


Es gibt viele Faktoren die Körper und Geist beinflussen

by Cherrytreegirl



Category: Das Boot (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Induced Amnesia, Bits of fluff, Canon Rewrite, Enemies staying Enemies, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, I hate him he has to perish, I should be studiying for my finals but I decided I'm doing this instead, I wanted content about the two so i wrote my own and decided to make it everyones problem, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Or Is It?, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, WW2, a hint of smut because i'm nice like that, and don't drink seawater!, and wear sunscreen!, don't tell my mom, drink responsibly, except i'm not sure he's dying here, hurt comfort, its really just gayer, ne beta we die like Sam Greenwood, so maybe we die like Ulrich Wrangel?, sort of slow burn?, university is later gay war boys is NOW, very dense Hoffmann
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherrytreegirl/pseuds/Cherrytreegirl
Summary: (This is basically my series "Es gibt viele Faktoren die das Leben beeinflussen" but as one work and I finally translated the first chapter into English. I made a few minor edits, so if you have read the series, you don't have to read chapters 1 to 8. Will be adding the next parts as new chapters.)
Relationships: Klaus Hoffmann/Karl Tennstedt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Sauerstoffmangel macht flau

**Author's Note:**

> People, people! I finally did it! Took me ages, I know, but hey. Have fun with this, my first little text-baby, and I am decently proud of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauerstoffmangel in Verbindung mit Alkohol kann einem schon mal ein flaues Gefühl machen. Besonders wenn man sich einsam fühlt.

He would have liked to tell himself it had been politeness, that it had been the only right thing to do in that situation. But was it really? If Klaus Hoffmann had to be honest, it had been polite, but politeness had not been the reason why he had offered his 1WO that glass of cognac. It had been the loneliness, the need for human interaction. Funnily enough, tomorrow he would get on an U-Boot with a crew of roughly 50 men, and he wouldn’t be able to avoid interaction for quite a while, but still, in his last few hours of peace and quiet, he longed for socialisation.

Or perhaps it hadn’t been the longing for any kind of socialisation, very easily he could have gone to some pub, strike a conversation with the friendly lady behind the counter, drowned out under the noise of drunk seamen. Rather he had missed Zweisamkeit, something private and intimate, which he wouldn’t have for the next few days. There was no such thing as privacy in an U-Boot.

Yes, he had offered the cognac out of loneliness, and Tennstedt had accepted. Neither of them, it appeared, wanted to spend time with the crew, drinking and whoring around, but they didn’t want to be alone either.

The lead-in over through his father’s book had been awkward, and for a moment Klaus feared he would merely get a lecture of Hoffmann-standard (the 1WO imitated Wilhelm surprisingly well, it had to be said) but the conversation luckily turned into a much more comfortable exchange soon, he found their glasses empty rather quickly and generously refilled them.

Their topics were rather varied, from music (“I really don’t understand why Wagner is suddenly so popular. I’ve never particularly enjoyed his works.”) to fashion (“Those flapper dresses were AWFUL, really. What did they THINK? No shape, just those silly frills and things.”) and even food (“You absolutely HAVE to try the duck in that one little restaurant, whatsitcalled, Le Gabriel or something, it’s a few streets behind the hospital.”), none of them very important or professional, but absolutely acceptable for drunk conversation.

And whilst Hoffmann and Tennstedt were so deeply invested in one another and cared little about their surrounding world, the surrounding world cared little about them too and mercilessly kept turning. After a, in their opinion far too short while, they were rudely interrupted by the sound of bells as the clock struck midnight already. It had gotten rather quiet on the streets of La Rochelle, beyond the windows of Hoffmann’s office, besides the loud gong of churches of course.

“I am afraid it has gotten quite late already,” said the Kaleun once the bells had ended their unappreciated song.  
  


“You are right, we best retire, we’ll want to avoid being tired tomorrow.”

Both of them got up, somewhat unwieldy, and stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. The one glass of cognac had turned into 3 or maybe 4, Hoffmann wasn’t sure anymore, they were, at least tipsy. He just hoped they wouldn’t make themselves too noticeable in the morning. He was still young but, unlike most of his peers, never been able to handle alcohol all that well, he was somewhat of a lightweight.

“Well, uhm,“ The Kaleun stepped toward the door, his 1WO following suit, although slightly wobblingly.

“Thank you for the drink,” Tennstedt extended a hand and Hoffmann shook it firmly.

“My pleasure, I thank you for the interesting conversation, Herr 1WO.”

They stood, far too long really, as if frozen in time, opposite one another, hands still holding on, when Tennstedt opened his mouth to say something, but Klaus interjected before he had the chance.

“Where did your hat go?”

The 1WO felt, somewhat clumsily, around on his head with his free hand, and Hoffmann swore he almost heard the little gears shifting as Tennstedt realized that his cap was in fact not on his head.  
  


“Huh, strange,” he let his gaze wander down his body, perhaps in the hopes of finding it tucked under his arm or in the pocket of his jacket (which was obviously way too small, but he didn’t notice that in his tipsy condition) and then looked around the dimly lit room, the Kaleun doing the same. After a relatively short search the latter spotted the rim, which peaked out from under his desk, the hat must have fallen down sometime during the evening. He let go of the other man’s hand, although reluctantly, and crossed the room to pick it up.

„Haha!“

Like a child that found a supposed pirate treasure in its garden, a broad grin formed on his face and Tennstedt too seemed to be glad his hat was found so quickly. He would have hated to show up to departure without it in the morning. It would have been most unprofessional.

Hoffmann returned to his previous place, evaluating if he should put it on the 1WO’s head, but ultimately decided against it. His slightly drunk brain would have found it funny, also to see the reaction of the though soldier Tennstedt, but it wasn’t appropriate for a commander to do such ridiculous and unprofessional things. But it would have been funny. He hesitated for another moment but then offered it to his opposite. Tennstedt had, throughout his whole thinking process, mustered Hoffmann with a confused look on his face, but now reached for the hat.  
His hand momentarily brushed that of the Kaleun, if on purpose or on accident wasn’t evident, much softer than in their previous handshake, and both of them froze for a second.

In that second, Hoffmann looked at his opposite, perhaps really looked at him for the first time. He’d regarded Karl Tennstedt a lot that evening, but he hadn’t **seen** him, not properly. In the amber lighting which shone from his desk lamp the otherwise so cold and lifeless looking soldier appeared almost soft, less like a marble statue and more like a baroque painting. The expanded pupils almost completely covered the gentle blue of his eyes, and they looked almost sad in a way. The Kaleun let his gaze wander, over the clean-shaven skin down to the slightly parted lips, which looked plump and equally soft. Suddenly he wondered if the 1WO had a girl somewhere, that waited to be kissed by exactly those soft, full lips. He quickly discarded that thought again, it wasn’t his place to wonder about those things, and blamed the alcohol for fogging up his mind like that.

It had gotten eerily silent, quiet enough he could hear his opposite’s breathing, he even thought to be able to feel it tickling on his cheeks. They did stand close enough, barely a quarter of a meter between them.

“Well then, good night, Herr 1WO,” his gaze shifted back up to the other’s eyes.

“Good night, Herr Kaleun,“ came the reply, barely a whisper.

But before Hoffmann was able to even lay a hand on the doorknob to open it, a pair of very soft lips pressed against his. To say he was surprised would be an understatement, but it wasn’t the type of surprise of a sudden, unexpected airstrike in which the adrenaline puts the body in a fight or flight mode, it was more like the sort of surprise of reuniting with an old friend who had gone missing, when the adrenaline puts you in a stupor of doubt before an unstoppable euphoria floods your veins.

It was a welcome surprise, Hoffmann realized.

However, before he could even close his eyes, which he had opened wide in the moment of ambush, the euphoric sensation was over and his lips felt cold and empty.

Tennstedt looked about as surprised as Hoffmann himself.  
  


“M-My apologies, sir...“

His voice was quiet and filled with horror, all of a sudden it didn’t the fearless soldier anymore. He tried to push past Hoffmann and disappear through the door, likely to flee an inevitable punishment, but Klaus awoke from his paralysation just about fast enough to prevent that. He slammed the door, which the 1WO had managed to pry open a few centimeters, closed again and made direct eye contact with him. The latter looked back, absolutely terrified, likely expecting to be struck in the face or at least yelled at.

Hoffmann planned none of the like, to be honest, he was unsure of his planned action himself until he did it, but that was trivial at that moment.

He raised his hand and Tennstedt twitched, eyes closed tightly, his whole body tense, but the Kaleun didn’t hit him, instead, he grasped the mand head and pressed their lips together once more. With his fingers, Klaus combed through the accurately trimmed hair of his 1WO, who apparently finally realized that there would be no acts of violence against him and eagerly reciprocated the kiss. He made a sound that could only be interpreted as a suppressed sigh and grabbed the Kaleun by his carefully ironed shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. After what felt like an eternity they separated for air and stood, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily. Their lips bright crimson and their cheeks the faintest hint of pink.

“I really should go now,” Tennstedt whispered.

“Yes, you probably should.“ He barely heard his own voice over the loudly rushing blood in his ears.

The 1WO did exactly that, and once Hoffmann had closed the door behind him, he sunk against it exhaustedly. His knees were shaky and he felt feeble. The alcohol was definitely to blame for that, he decided and rubbed his face with his hands. This feeling of lightheadedness came definitely stemmed from that, and perhaps from the lack of oxygen, but not from anything else.


	2. Alkohol führt zu Verwirrung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a simple late-night drink can turn into something else. That thing being a headache and no memories of what else happened. All of those things can turn into grand confusion about other people.

The first thing that came to Klaus Hoffmann, when he woke up that morning, was punishment for his lèger idea of war preparation the night before, and it came to him in the form of a throbbing headache. It wasn’t particularly intense, but it was just strong enough to be quite bothersome.

What came to him next was the realization that Karl Tennstedt had lied to him. Hoffmann didn’t remember everything from their conversation, the cognac had been quite strong judging by his headache and missing memories, but he did remember that with no word Tennstedt had informed him about the literal fire that had started on his **brand new** boat. Klaus probably would have never known, and it was pure luck that he still remembered that from last night, if he hadn’t checked the boat himself and met the new radio operator who had been repairing the equipment. Perhaps the 1WO had simply forgotten? No, if the fire had been severe enough so the radio operator had to be replaced, then a man like Tennstedt could not have forgotten about it and therefore failed to inform his commander. The Kaleun would have to clarify that this kind of misbehaviour was not acceptable under his command, at least that he shared with his father.

Only in his third thought did it occur to him that, not only would he be leaving La Rochelle today and spend quite some time at sea, his last event ashore for a while would be the execution of a former crewmate. The idea of attending still made his stomach churn but he wasn’t about to break the promise ha gave a dying man, it wouldn’t be honourable, and it would certainly only make his feeling of guilt worse. So, he donned his clothes, downed two glasses of water and stepped out into the early morning light.

The minute his ears stopped ringing, Hoffmann realized that there would be talk about him shooting a man in the head point-blank, and it wouldn’t be a heroic tale. But he knew he couldn’t have watched this young soldier perish like a dog, in the dirt, choking on his own blood. It had been merciful to release him from his suffering, it had been true euthanasia, not what those bloody “scientists” thought it meant, what they did had nothing to do with mercy and everything with their messed-up perception of Rassengesundheit. Their superiors probably wouldn’t have agreed with his decision as this had been a punishment for cowardice, but it wasn’t like Klaus had asked them. Sometimes he thought that all of the Nazis must be sadists, another reason perhaps, why he didn’t necessarily agree with their ideas, because he was very much not sadistic, quite the opposite really. He had never been able to watch a creature suffering, struggling to survive.

As a child, maybe 5 years old, he’d slipped the tight supervision of his nanny (she had fallen asleep watching him play with his little airplanes and tin soldiers) and wandered down to the kitchen out of pure curiosity. There he’d come in touch with death for the first time in his life as he watched the kitchen maid grab a living goose by the neck, the bird kicking and smacking with its wings, screeching in a terrible choked manner before the maid turned its head in a swift move of hands, the white-feathered body becoming limp and motionless. Little Klaus had run back up the stairs, absolutely terrified, past his waking nanny and hidden under his covers for the next hour or so. That evening, at dinner he announced to his, very amused by their son’s decision, parents that he was a vegetarian now and would not be eating be any more birds, thank you very much.

His protest had only lasted about a week though, Fräulein Schneider’s duck tasted far too good to be refused. The horror with the goose was as good as forgotten, but he never did go down to the kitchens again when she was cooking poultry.

Hoffmann spent a good fifteen minutes in the restroom, bent over a sink, and furiously scrubbing his hands to remove the blood off them. From the aggression and intensity with which he went about this task, one might have thought he was trying to clean tar of off his skin, but there was no tar, there wasn’t even the smallest fleck of dirt, not a singular crimson droplet on his pale fingers, yet he couldn’t get the stickiness to go away, no matter how hard he rubbed, his hands felt tarnished by his foolish and impulsive reaction. He had shot at people before, there was a war going on after all, but this felt so different, he had shot a German soldier, a man he knew.

When Klaus realized that there was nothing left to scrub off his hands but his skin, he finally put down the bar of soap and stared at the redness he had caused. After he had dried them off, the irritation only looked worse, he was hardly able to make a fist, the skin over his knuckles felt tight, like leather gloves that are just slightly too small. Hoffmann saw the oh so thin tears opening and felt the stinging sensation be replaced by a painful itchiness. He still found it strange that intense washing with water lead to dryer hands, it felt like a paradox, there surely was a scientific explanation for it, but he’d never bothered to ask someone knowledgeable. Now there was blood, small rivers running through the shallow valleys spanning his skin, his own blood. It almost felt like a bad omen (not that he believed in anything like that, karma, spirituality and all that shite).

His eyes wandered from his abused hands upwards to the watch on his wrist, it had been a present from his parents when he’d joined the marine, and realized he’d completely forgotten about time in his manic attempt at cleansing. He slipped on his gloves, was it to protect his hands from the biting salty air or from unappreciated staring? Hoffmann wasn’t sure, but it didn’t really matter, did it now. With one last glance at his reflection in the mirror, he started his way to the docks.

“Ready for departure, sir.”

The 1WO looked perfectly professional, not a strand of hair out of place, Hoffmann had half hoped Tennstedt would show even the slightest bit of tiredness, perhaps to reassure himself in his youth and the idea that he wasn’t that awful at handling a few drinks and a few hours less sleep, but he was disappointed to find not even the tiniest thing of softness in the 1WO’s stance. Although, if you looked very closely, which Klaus did, it seemed as if there was just a hint of uncertainty in Tennstedt’s eyes, and that terrified the young commander because it seemed so unlike him.

Well, he hardly knew the man, but from what he had gathered about him so far it seemed out of character for Tennstedt to be uncertain about anything. He suddenly wondered if anything important had happened last night that he had forgotten about. As much as he searched around in his mind though, he wasn’t able to find anything notable. Hoffmann still only remembered very little, they had talked about his father’s book and the crew, but nothing of real importance.

So, he pushed the air of uncertainty in the other’s gaze into the fact that Tennstedt probably hadn’t served as 1WO under a captain younger than himself and wasn’t sure how the dynamic of the two of them would be. Hoffmann himself wasn’t sure about that yet either, it certainly would be interesting, to say the least. Perhaps the man didn’t trust him yet, and Hoffmann could hardly blame him for that, he was young, way too young, and had too little experience to be commanding his own boat. That was surely the reason for it, what else would it be? They hadn’t declared their undying love for one another only for Hoffmann to forget or something. That would be ridiculous.

“The only way we can survive is together.”  
Hoffmann was aware of their whispering, he knew they didn’t trust him fully, not yet. He knew that some of them had hoped that Tennstedt would be their captain for this journey and that they believed that the only reason he wasn’t, was because Klaus was the son of the great and mighty war hero. Perhaps they also believed that it was a reward for snitching, for testifying in the case of his former crewmate being tried for cowardice.

Hoffmann knew he’d have to prove himself worthy, worthy as a commander, worthy as their superior. He knew he had to assert dominance. And what was the best way to assert dominance over a ship overflowing with testosterone? Have them do drills.

Again, and again.

He was aware that that probably wouldn’t help with their dislike towards him, but it showed them who was in charge. And even if they hated him for it, what were they going to do, put him in a lifeboat and abandon him at sea?

So far everything had gone most smoothly, the crew worked together and the boat, well she was just a beauty, performing perfectly.

“Let’s see how she does below.”

“Prepare to dive.”

With the other men rattling away beneath them to go underwater, Hoffmann turned towards his 1WO.

“There was a fire aboard, you failed to inform me.”  
He didn’t know why he had decided to confront Tennstedt in private, Klaus probably should have done it in front of everyone to assure they all understood who was in charge here, he was aware, after all, of the fact that Tennstedt had more experience than him, and that the men knew too. But that didn’t mean the man got to do whatever he wanted.

“It was under control.”

“Under control? You had to replace the radio operator!” He felt himself getting more agitated by Tennstedt’s nonchalance. The 1WO’s face was cold and calculated, apparently convinced he’d done nothing wrong. Hoffmann stepped closer, he was a few centimeters shorter but that didn’t make him any less of a threat in that moment, he was ready to push his opposite off into the water, should the need arise.

He probably would also jump right after and pull him back out, but that was irrelevant and the 1WO had no knowledge of that either.

Hoffmann saw how Tennstedt’s shoulders tensed, the other was obviously aware of the dangerous waters he was entering here.

“If anything like that happens again, if you go behind my back again, there will be punishment.”

Different emotions flickered through the 1WO’s eyes, from the usual coldness to what could be most accurately described as a mixture of both respect and fear, then to that uncertainty again and lastly turning into something dark, sinister almost, Hoffmann couldn’t quite place it, he was unsure of the feeling it represented. Tennstedt’s breathing was shallower now, slow, almost laboured and he stood incredibly still, shoulders flexed.*  
Hoffmann hoped that his tenseness meant that the man had understood where his place was.

Without another word, he descended into the hull of his U-Boot, the 1WO following soon after.


	3. Schlaf hilft beim Nachdenken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes confusion can easily be cleared up through a simple conversation. And sometimes it can't, then you'll just have to come to your own conclusions.

They had just finished their dinner, Ehrenberg and the other men had either retired or were currently returning to their stations, the 1WO stood too, ready to get to his cot.

“A word please, 1WO,” The dimly lit table wasn’t necessarily a private place to talk but it was as secluded as it was going to get for the next few weeks and the Kaleun needed answers now.

“Of course, sir, is anything the matter?”

“You tell me.”

“What do you mean, Kaleun?”

“What is it?” Hoffmann asked again, voice hushed so the others didn’t hear but firm enough to give the air of importance. “You’ve been giving me this weird look all day. Is it just that you don’t trust in my capability? Or do you have any other complaints?” He had tried to ignore it as much as possible but it was driving him insane. It almost felt like Tennstedt was watching his every move just waiting for him to slip up, as if to rub it in his face that the 1WO was more experienced than him. And so, he decided, the best way to find out why Tennstedt was behaving this way, was to just ask him. See if he was man enough to say it to his face that he disliked him.

“Absolutely not, Kaleun.”

“You aren’t one of those sensitive people who can’t handle being told off, are you?” the only reply he got was an offended huff.

Then, is it about last night? Did I punch you when I was piss drunk, or something?”

“N-No…?”

“Tell you embarrassing stories from my childhood?”

“No, Kaleun.”

“It can’t be because of that damned book. Please tell me you’re not developing a superiority complex because I haven’t read my father’s book.” At this point he was really shooting in the dark.  
Tennstedt looked at him as if he’d just told a ghost story in Russian or something, well perhaps not Russian, the1WO would look a lot angrier then, but he looked incredibly confused. His brows were furrowed and he opened his mouth, closed it again after a second, repeating the process twice, not saying anything though. A bit like a fish, Klaus thought, it almost made him chuckle but he collected himself, that really wouldn’t be appropriate right now and probably confuse the poor man even further.

“You haven’t read ‘Mein Kampf’ either, there is no reason to have this holier-than-thou attitude.” He realized that the comparison wasn’t great, the one book was a staple piece for U-Boot commanders, the other was the brainfart of an Austrian extremist who just so happened to be the Führer. If Tennstedt was a psychic that thought would likely have gotten him executed, but Hoffmann didn’t believe in supernatural Hocus-Pocus.

The 1WO remained quiet.

“Oh god, you have read it? You have, haven’t you?” An obedient soldier like him, the Kaleun should have known, or at least suspected, well, sometimes Hoffmann’s brain didn’t consider before speaking. But why was he just babbling away now? He was usually calm and collected around people whose opinions mattered. If he was honest, he didn’t really understand why he even cared about the reason Tennstedt was acting strange, he could have just told him to knock it off and be done with it, but for some reason he wanted to know, to understand what made these blue eyes look so uncertain, so lost. Had he just realized how blue they were, or had he remembered that they were? Hoffmann couldn’t say. Given though, how dim the light was, and how far away (it was only a meter, probably half between them, but it seemed way too big a distance) Tennstedt sat, he probably remembered rather than saw. But when had he found that out?

“No, Kaleun, I haven’t, it is unreadable.” The Kaleun was rather violently jerked from his thoughts but immediately relaxed at the realization that he wouldn’t be tried for insulting the Führers book, the likely most convinced Nazi aboard this ship had just described it as unreadable after all.

Tennstedt spoke again, quiet and almost softly. “You don’t remember?”

Hoffmann looked at him, waiting for more words to come out, for an explanation of what he was supposed to remember.

“Last night. You don’t remember the…” Tennstedt trailed off.  
There was an undertone to his voice that Hoffmann wasn’t able to interpret, it was both relief as well as a hint of disappointment, the latter was very faint, but still felt overwhelmingly present. As if Tennstedt didn’t want it to be there but couldn’t suppress it. He didn’t know why but he suddenly felt like what he had forgotten was extremely important to Tennstedt for some reason, perhaps he’d told him of worries or fears, something very close to him either way and Hoffmann had just forgotten, he felt incredible guilt welling up in his chest.

“Remember the what?”

“Nothing, Kaleun. Good night.” With that, he stood up from his seat and left. Hoffmann wanted to get up and stop him, force him to spit out what had happened but he ultimately decided against it. If Tennstedt didn’t want to tell him now, fine, but he would get his answers one way or another.

A thought that came to him later, after he had retired to his cot too, was that perhaps it hadn’t been Tennstedt that had told him of his worries but rather that he himself had told his deepest darkest struggles to the 1WO. What if he had started crying? Wept in front of Tennstedt, over his terrible relationship with his father, how he never felt good enough, how he had never felt that paternal love, never had had that Father-Son-bonding experience that most other men he’d met in his life always spoke of. Klaus soon dismissed this idea, both because he couldn’t bear the embarrassment of having cried, shown such softness, in front of the great supersoldier Karl Tennstedt, but also because that didn’t seem to fit with the disappointment in Tennstedt’s voice when the latter had realized Hoffmann didn’t remember much of the evening. He’d probably have looked a lot smugger all day, celebrating and making Freudensprünge over having found flaws in the perfect Hoffmann Jr. if he had done something as embarrassing as he was imagining.

No, that wasn’t what had Tennstedt so shaken, Hoffmann was relieved but it didn’t help the situation much. He still had no real idea what he had forgotten. And after more rummaging in his clouded memories, he decided that he wouldn’t achieve anything tonight and might as well rest.

When he woke up from his slumber hours later, he found that the fog in his mind had lifted a bit, as if the intense digging had at last worked at loosening the barricades the alcohol had put in place, similarly to how, when one pulls and pulls on a jammed door with enough persistency and aggression, either the hinges give in or the bolt snaps free from the lock.

Hoffmann now remembered that they had looked for Tennstedt’s hat, and they had been quite clumsy at it, definitely more than a bit tipsy. Another thing he remembered was a feeling rather than a scene. A feeling of warmth, of intimacy, nostalgia but also hunger and need. A feeling he had only experienced once before but now craved deeply, wanting to dive into it and hide underneath the waves of raw emotion. (He did not, in that moment of sweet wallowing in the past, want to remember the fit his father had thrown when he found out about it and the hours of lecturing he had had to endure.)

He remembered the touch of soft lips on his, fingers gliding through his hair, the rush of adrenaline down his spine.

But, although it felt real, he wasn’t certain it had been, or if he had perhaps just dreamt that. The Kaleun hadn’t gone to the brothel, it simply wasn’t his style and he found it rather unsanitary, and the only other people he had met that night had been Tennstedt, Strasser and Strasser sister.

Surely, he hadn’t.

No, it simply wasn’t right and even drunk him should have known that.

He didn’t know her and it certainly wasn’t acceptable for the Kaleun to go around sleeping with his crewmen’s siblings.  
Since he only remembered a kiss and nothing more carnal, in that case he was quite sure he hadn’t just forgotten, he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to marry her or pay supports for any possible children. But even a kiss wasn’t appropriate, he had no choice but to blame this gross indecency on his intoxication and he would have to apologize to her as soon as they returned to La Rochelle. And pray she wouldn’t tell her brother.

Not only did he want to avoid any possible personal hatred from his radio operator, arguably one of the most important men aboard an U-Boot, but he also didn’t particularly fancy a fist to the face. It had happened to him once, at about 12 years of age, he had asked a girl from church if she would like to come over for tea, he had really wanted to show her his collection of boat models that he had spent months assembling, but apparently her older brother did not like that idea and young Klaus had returned home with fist sized bruise and a hurting jaw.

Now, Frank Strasser was a good few centimetres shorter than him, but one would be wrong assuming he didn’t punch hard enough to knock even a man like Tennstedt out cold. (When had Tennstedt become his scale for everything? It wasn’t really important now but it confused him nevertheless.) A black eye or a dislocated jaw most definitely wouldn’t be a good look for a Kaleun, especially one as young as him, it would give the impression he didn’t have his men under control.

But as much as he was uncomfortable about the threat of Strasser’s wrath coming down on him he was glad that more of the evening had now been cleared of the fog. Tennstedt’s behaviour was still a mystery to him though…


	4. Druck vereinfacht Entscheidungen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you can think that somebody is absolutely incompetent and shouldn't have the command over a few hundred tons of German steel but still like them in a way. Sometimes that means trying not to get them killed by a bunch of angry seamen.

The whole affair with Greenwood had been…. impractical.

It was important to clarify here, he felt, that with “affair” is not meant a romantic and/or sexual relationship but rather a thing or situation, Klaus always had taken his French classes seriously as a child and he found it a terrible manner to only associate foreign words with one of their meanings. Although he wasn’t quite sure why it was so important to him to clarify, it should have been rather obvious they hadn’t had any relations of sexual or romantic nature, Greenwood was an Ami after all and they were currently in a war against said people. As well as the fact that non-platonic feelings between men were generally frowned upon in the Nazi ideology too. Any homosexual relationship to an enemy would likely be not only regarded as perverted and abhorrent but also treasonous, comparable in terribleness to trying to assassinate Adolf Hitler himself. So no, with “affair” he meant the things that had happened from the moment they took Samuel Greenwood on board until they reached their destination and exchanged him for Wrangel.

But it alone likely wouldn’t have caused the chaos it did.

Hoffmann knew that his behaviour had influenced the turn of events greatly, he was in parts at fault for what happened after they took Wrangel aboard. With a different commander, one with more experience, someone like Tennstedt perhaps, they would have made their way back in no time, glorious and successful. Or perhaps they would not have, the man was quite impulsive at times and perhaps they would have sunken through foolish behaviour. Either way, things would not have turned out the way they did. The affair with Greenwood had been impractical, yes, but it somehow got even worse after.

The Kaleun was well aware that his surrendering a wounded soldier to the American ship certainly did not improve his relationship with the crew, and him getting sick and sicker didn’t help in proving his ability to lead them to war either, even if he hadn’t chosen to be sick. Well, jumping into the water most definitely hadn’t been beneficial given his already developing cold, but he couldn’t have let Greenwood drown and risk the Americans sinking them for it, it had been a trap after all. If Tennstedt wasn’t as impulsive it wouldn’t even have come to that, he had been punished for it as Hoffmann had promised, but pointing fingers wasn’t helpful in this situation and even if he hadn’t gotten sicker from his somewhat involuntary dive, it probably still wouldn’t have changed the outcome of the mission. Wrangel was a convincing man and Hoffmann was disliked by the crew, there would have been issues sooner or later.

However, all of this he only realized a lot later, on soil far away from his Vaterland.

In that moment the Kaleun had not in the least expected that Wrangel would cause a mutiny as soon as he was given the chance. Even less, perhaps, that the man would succeed.

What he did realize, though, was that the redhead was a madman, perhaps it was the reason why he was liked as a commander, he lacked all reason when enraged and only focused on his goal. (Overwhelmed by Siegeswillen one might say.) Hoffmann was very sure it would be fatal to the man one day. (And Hoffmann would turn out to be right about that as he learned many, many years after the war had ended, he somehow got through the rest of it relatively unscathed, from a letter he received. In it, Ehrenberg, who also had survived miraculously, confessed to stabbing Wrangel with Hoffmann’s knife, which had been taken from Hoffmann as a means of disarming him and assuring he wouldn’t resist the mutineers, and was proud to say the redhead had not been expecting it at all. The chief engineer, still plagued by the guilt of him not interfering in the mutiny, had been very glad to hear of Hoffmann’s survival and decided to write to him as soon as he had learned of his whereabouts.)

Another thing he had most definitely not expected was how hard Tennstedt tried to keep him not only alive but on board. Hoffmann had picked up on the conversation between the 1WO and Wrangel from his cot in a half daze, although their voices were muffled by not only the walls but also his clogged ears and his brain felt like the soft cotton balls his mother had sometimes used to clean the wounds on his knees with iodine when he fell and scraped them while playing, he was still able to follow along quite well. They were talking about him, or more precisely about what to do with him.

Wrangel’s first suggestion had been to simply shoot Hoffmann, not a great solution if you asked him and Tennstedt had been equally opposed to that. Since outright murder didn’t seem to find him any support, Wrangel made other suggestions, one of which included having the Kaleun walk the plank like a pirate in a children’s book (most, like that one, ended in a certain death for him) but the 1WO persistently declined all of Wrangel’s ideas, arguing that in his current state Hoffmann would hardly try to take back control, not to even speak of his chances at succeeding in that, and that they could simply keep him alive and onboard. It would also have the benefit that if there ever should be a trial, some people weren’t completely happy with the mutiny and could snitch on them, they had Hoffmann as a witness and could force him to deny those claims, saying he had been too sick and given command to Wrangel and Tennstedt.

The man in question was surprised, to say the least, he had thought Tennstedt would be one of the first to agree to any option in getting rid of the Kaleun, but the 1WO seemed opposed to any scenario that included Hoffmann's death, and the only explanation he had for that, besides Tennstedt’s logic about the witness testimony of course (he had to give it to the man, as much as he disliked the thought of being forced to lie in court about the situation, that was pretty clever of an idea), was that perhaps the 1WO was a bigger fan of Hoffmann senior than he had originally assumed. Not that he’d really be missed by his father, the latter would probably rather agree with Wrangel if he saw what kind of pathetic excuse of a commander his son was, but Tennstedt didn’t know that, he possibly even thought the great war hero would be glad if his son was returned to him alive, protected by the brave second in command and that he’d get another medal or something.

The argument ended soon after, either they had found a solution they both agreed with, and Hoffmann had missed it, or Wrangel had decided that if he wasn’t able to convince Tennstedt, he simply wasn’t going to ask him. Which one it was didn’t really matter to Hoffmann right now though; his head was hurting from the intent focusing on their quiet talking, coughs were still violently shaking his body ever so often and he found himself quickly drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

Not even an hour later he was awoken and told to get dressed. Still half asleep he ascended the ladder up to the deck, the bright sunlight only further agitating his already forming migraine, Wrangel was already awaiting him eagerly, a wide grin on his face, filled with Schadenfreude. By the hull of U-612 floated a small Gummiboot, secured with a small rope that would soon be cut, the waves throwing it against the massive steel wall again and again.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

So, that was his fate then, huh. He wondered why Tennstedt had agreed to that of all things, this was arguably worse than outright just shooting him. There were no paddles aboard the tiny boat, and the food and water supply they had mercifully given him was enough for perhaps a week, combined with the cruel sunlight shining down on him and reflecting in the water, it would be a slow death, there was hardly a chance of reaching land before he died of either dehydration or slowly starved to death, given, of course, the first storm didn't just overturn the glorified piece of floating rubber and he drowned, they were in the middle of the ocean after all. His only real chance would be to be picked up by another boat, in the best case a German Zerstörer, in the worst case an American ship, be it cargo or military, it wasn't likely they'd help him if they saw he was wearing a German uniform (the likelihood of them recognising it was obviously higher for soldiers than for ordinary seamen).

Klaus quickly learned that Tennstedt had not at all agreed, much like he had suspected earlier the mad redhead had simply elected not to ask Tennstedt any longer. Worse (for Tennstedt) even, it had apparently occurred to Wrangel that the stubbornness of the 1WO in keeping Hoffmann aboard was not only bothersome but also suspicious and he decided it was too dangerous to keep the 1WO.

So, it happened that the U-612 lost both her Kaleun and 1WO that day, set afloat in a tiny boat. How exactly Wrangel had convinced the crew to turn against Tennstedt of all people was rather puzzling to Hoffmann, as much as they despised him, they had been most loyal to the 1WO, but he had done it somehow and Klaus couldn’t help but feel impressed.

Perhaps he had told them a tale of how Tennstedt had suddenly changed his mind and didn’t want to participate in the mutiny any longer, or that he only wanted to keep Hoffmann because he was so honoured by the idea of working under his greatest hero’s son, that he couldn’t bear to set him afloat. That, because Hoffmann was the spitting image of his father in younger years (he wasn’t) whom Tennstedt was so inlove with, he couldn’t bring it over him to part ways with the Kaleun. Even just the suggestion that Tennstedt could be a homosexual would likely prompt even his biggest fans among the crew to turn against him, Hoffmann had rarely met a group of people who hated homosexuals as much as soldier (and U-Booter for that matter) did.

All of that was obviously Hühnerscheiße, Klaus was still sure that Tennstedt did not like him very much precisely because he was **nothing** like the great and mighty Hoffmann senior. And for the homosexual aspect, he obviously didn't know, but if he had to guess, he'd say it wasn't very likely. Tennstedt was quite convinced of the Nazi ideology and even though there was no ring on his finger he just didn't seem to be the type.

It occurred to him right then and there, though, that perhaps that was what had happened that fateful night he barely remembered.  
Tennstedt did admire Hoffmann's father, so maybe he had promised Tennstedt he would introduce them and then promptly forgotten about it. It would also explain the disappointment in the 1WO’s voice, because he had gotten so close to meeting the big warhero in person but was then confronted with the terrible truth that his useless son had immediately forgotten about his promise.

Hoffmann was sunken so deeply in his thoughts that he completely missed the rope being cut and the U-Boot disappearing under the waves again, probably due to the fact that he was still sickish and his brain working slowly, only being able to focus on one thing at a time.

He was only jerked back to reality by the sound of Tennstedt audibly clearing his throat. The man was looking at him intently, as if waiting for a command, but there was no hierarchy out here.  
They were no longer Kaleun and 1WO, here they were Klaus Hoffmann and Karl Tennstedt. Two men in a lifeboat, in the middle of the ocean.  
The only things to be heard now were the sound of waves smacking against the rubber and the winds brushing over the water, through their hair and getting caught in their jackets.  
If it hadn’t been for their uniforms, one could have easily forgotten there was a war going on, everything seemed so… peaceful.  
Hoffmann let his gaze wander over the horizon before he looked back at his boatmate across from him, their eyes locking for a moment.

“So…. What’s the plan?”


	5. Isolation macht reizbar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does one do on a small lifeboat in the middle of the ocean? Talk? Catch up? Not if you're Karl Tennstedt and Klaus Hoffmann.

The sad reality both of them had to face was, there was no plan, worse even, there wasn’t really any option for a plan either. Their only chance at survival was luck.

  
Pure luck.

  
Neither of them wanted to think too much about the fact that they were likely going to die out here, specifically that one of them was probably going to die first, leaving the other to deal with the rest of his pitifully short life alone. Hoffmann wasn’t sure he would say that he felt particularly fond of Tennstedt, but being in the middle of the ocean, completely isolated, was arguably worse than spending time with the man. And, as much as Tennstedt disliked him, he surely though the same. They would have to face their fate eventually, sooner rather than later, but for now, the best way to deal with it seemed to be pushing it as far back in their minds as possible.  
For the first few hours neither of them spoke, the 1WO was obviously still working through the shock that the crew had turned not only against Hoffmann but also him, and Klaus was still slightly delirious, staring off into space, although his head had started to feel a lot less foggy, a sign that his body was finally getting over the sickness, thankfully. It would have been ironic, in a way, had he dies of bloody (he was most glad there wasn’t any blood) pneumonia.

  
He was half aware his mind should really be putting him in a state of alarm about the fact that he was facing certain death, yet he couldn’t help feeling at peace. The repetitive up and down movement of their little boat as the waves rolled through was calming in a way, the lack of machine noises made him feel safe for some reason, obviously contradictory to their actual current situation, they had no protection from the elements and enemies whatsoever. But at least they wouldn’t be target for any more Wasserbomben.

When the sun reached its highest point in the bright blue sky, burning down on them mercilessly, Hoffmann broke their silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Tennstedt turned towards him and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“I’m sorry I promised you you’d get to meet my father and then immediately forgot about it. I can tell you’re disappointed about it, but I promise, when we get out of this,” He waved his arms around, motioning to their rubber boat, “When we get out of this, I’ll make it up to you.”

  
It really should have been an “if” and not a “when”, but he didn’t want to think about that too hard.

  
Tennstedt still stared at him, expression unchanged, as if his brain was the slow one, not understanding what the Kaleun was saying.

“I mean, it’s very nice of you, that you are suggesting to introduce me to your father, Kaleun. I have great respect for him and would love to have a conversation, but you never promised that you would.”

“I didn’t?”

“You didn’t. We briefly spoke of him, his book, it felt to me like you would rather talk about other things though, so I didn’t push further.” So, he hadn’t wept, or even complained, about his father to Tennstedt either, that certainly was a good thing to hear.

“What were you so disappointed about then?” Back to square one, Klaus really had not the slightest idea what could have happened, now. The thing with his father had been his best bet.

“I’m not disappointed!” Tennstedt snapped back, far too quickly in Hoffmann’s opinion. He seemed defensive all of a sudden, maybe even embarrassed. Like a flustered schoolgirl, he turned away, refusing to even look at the Kaleun.

“Alright,” Klaus raised his hands in Kapitulation, “you don’t want to talk about it.”

If Tennstedt wanted to play petty 12-year-old, he wasn’t going to stop him. The man only huffed in reply, so Hoffmann returned to his previous activity, staring out into the endless horizon hoping to spot any sign of salvation.

  
It all appeared surreal somehow, even though he could most definitely feel the breeze on his face, he could smell the salty air and he saw the sun as it dyed the sky bright orange, it still felt like a dream (or a nightmare, rather), like he was going to wake up any second now, like this wasn’t his body.  
Perhaps he had, very naïvely, thought that his father’s legacy would protect him from something like this. Even though he insisted his achievements were nothing but proof of his own hard work, Klaus really couldn’t deny that he was his father’s son and he had experienced privilege most other soldiers his age hadn’t. Yes, he had fought for his place in the world just like everyone else, but he had had the support of the great Hoffmann’s shadow looming over him. No sane man gave a 20-year-old command over 50 something men and a few hundred tons of steel, heavily armed, except if that 20-year-old happened to be the son of a celebrated war hero.

  
People tended to forget that he was the great Hoffmann’s junior, not his younger Doppelgänger. He was just a normal soldier, like all the men he fought beside, with the exception that his last name was well known. He was young and inexperienced; he lacked the dominance and maturity that came with fighting for years. His downfall had been inevitable, really. It was true that people grew into their responsibilities under pressure, but sometimes it was too early to throw a duckling into deep water, all you would achieve is that it drowns.

  
His father (and Tennstedt for that matter) would surely disagree, saying that the only reason the duckling was drowning was because the duckling decided to let its fear of swimming overpower it, when in reality it hadn’t even hatched yet and there was no chance for it to start swimming in its eggshell. Not that Hoffmann was an unhatched duckling of course, but you get the drift.

  
He was more of a swan. (A goose, if you asked Tennstedt, but you really shouldn’t ask him, he’s mean.)

Klaus had inherited little of his father’s natural dominance and strategic genes, much to Wilhelm’s dismay he was a lot more like his mother, but no one knew that, his father was far too proud (in himself, not of Klaus) and perhaps too ashamed to admit that.  
Why his mind had decided that right now was the best time to work through what he had suppressed for so long, he couldn’t say, really. Maybe it was because he deemed it important to come clean with himself in the eye of death, maybe he simply had no more excuse not to think about it, he wasn’t particularly busy right now. He could, of course, count the knots of his knitted jumper, or the stitches on the seams of his jacket, but that was hardly important work. Conversation was also not a viable distraction, his boat mate was still behaving like a petty little child and refused to speak with him. Whatever it was that had happened that night, Tennstedt wasn’t only secretive about it, for some reason he was also quite unhappy, perhaps even offended (just because Hoffmann had dared to say he appeared to be disappointed, rude really! How could he!). The Kaleun was still determined to find out, but since Tennstedt wasn’t telling him he’d have to learn from his own memory and that could take a few more days.

Just how bad their situation was going to be, he realized the next morning when he woke up with a disgusting taste in his mouth and no toothpaste available to get rid of it. (Yes, dying is arguably worse than lack of dental hygiene, but Klaus was a rather cleanly person and to him, it was almost as bad.) And as if that wasn’t horrible enough, once he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Tennstedt leaning overboard into the water, ass into the air. (It wasn’t so much the ass that he found so awful, rather the idea that Tennstedt was for whatever reason drowning.) The awkward position should have been a clear indication that sleep drunken Klaus was misinterpreting the situation, but since he was exactly that, sleep drunken, it wasn’t clear at all. And so, his not yet awake brain told him to do the only rational thing in that situation, get a hold of the drowning man and pull him back into the boat. The plan was a good one, the execution was rather clumsy though, as he yanked at whatever he could get between his fingers, it happened to be the hem of Tennstedt’s pants. He was quite successful at getting him out the water, but Hoffmann had been a little overexcited it appeared, they both tumbled backwards, Tennstedt landing on top of him rather painfully, knocking the wind out of him. (The man was muscular, yes, but he didn’t look nearly as heavy as he actually was.) The 1WO immediately made a move to get free from Hoffmann’s tight hold, delivering a most definitely not accidental blow to his stomach with the elbow, leaving him breathless for a second time. (Breathless, not because of being in a state of awe, but rather breathless as in, literally gasping for air. He didn’t find it very awe-inspiring to be punched in the gut.)

"What the fuck?!"

Tennstedt had apparently not been drowning at all, rather he had, similarly to Hoffmann, disliked the taste in his mouth (Tennstedt's own mouth, obviously) and decided to use seawater to rinse it out as not to waste any of their drinking water. The sudden attack from behind had, although nice in motive, not been necessary.  
Once they had disentangled themselves, Klaus returned to his side of their little boat, still breathing heavily (that punch to the stomach hurt like a motherfu-). He felt Tennstedt's eyes on him the whole time, like a predator watching his prey, and for a moment he feared the man was going to push him into the ocean as revenge. It felt a bit overreactive, it really had only been a minor inconvenience, but perhaps Tennstedt was still angry about yesterday. Or he felt hurt in his pride because Hoffmann thought he needed saving.  
After his breathing had normalized again, Tennstedt was still staring at him like he was the devil incarnate, he spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"I mean, you could continue being pissy, the whole time until we're dead, or you could just tell me what bothers you so much, you know? Would probably be more comfortable for both of us."

"Just- Just stay on your side and we're good." And with that, the topic was done. The “Mimose” Klaus muttered under his breath went unnoticed by the other man.

Although Hoffmann really wasn't satisfied with the situation, he realized pushing wasn't the right approach, it wouldn't get him any further with the rather stubborn 1WO, the only way he was going to be getting any answers was to wait, let the man sulk a bit until his temper cooled. (Tennstedt was a bit like an engine in that regard, once his anger reached a certain heat it was best to leave him alone or find a way to “cool” him, otherwise he’d just shut down or, in the worst case, blow up (not in the sense that his organs went spewing everywhere of course, but it would be nasty).)  
Instead, he decided to dig through the pockets of his jacket to see what else he could occupy himself with. It wasn’t much he had, a paperclip, a compass with his mother’s picture, a whole lot of lint, a pencil stub and a small notepad. The last two proved to be rather useful as an occupation, he decided to sketch something. Given that there weren’t particularly many motives around (lots of ocean around him, not all that interesting to draw) he decided on the only obvious thing to draw, probably one of the most drawn motives besides fruit. A person.  
Tennstedt still looked rather disgruntled, although not quite as mordlustig as before, nevertheless he hoped the man didn’t notice him repeatedly and continuously staring, he much preferred breathing air rather than water. (Tennstedt did, of course, notice the Kaleun’s staring, but he decided he wasn’t going to say anything about it.)  
In his childhood and teenage years this hobby, drawing, had never been encouraged much by his father, for it was too “feminine”. Why exactly it was, he never quite understood. Hadn’t the great artists of the world been mostly men? Raphael, Botticelli, Da Vinci? Even the Führer was an artist. Nevertheless, his father had insisted that no son of his was going to dwell in such a hobby, god forbid he wanted to become a professional artist, it simply wasn’t right for a proper young man like him, too girly and useless. A job for the talentless and the queers. (Another thing he never did understand, why was it so bad to be “queer”? When he heard it for the first time, another boy had said it to one of his friends, he didn’t even know what a “queer” was. That evening he asked his mother but she just told him to forget about it and never ask again. The only explanation he got from his father was: “They’re dirty people, son, dirty and evil.” “Just like the Jews, daddy?” (He didn’t think the Jews were bad, but everyone around him always said they were, so he believed them, he was only ten at the time, they obviously knew more than him) “No, worse really.” And that was all he got. Much later, he learned what a “queer” was, but exactly why it was so bad, he still didn’t know. Most people just said, “It’s disgusting” and “in the bible, it says it’s a sin.”, but Klaus thought peas we’re disgusting and the bible said “You shall love thy neighbour”, yet no one really seemed to care enough about either of those, peas were still legal and everybody was always judging one another over the most trivial of things, like shoes or haircuts.) Either way, Hoffmann enjoyed drawing, even if his father didn’t support it, there was only so much he was ready to do or give up on to please his father, so he simply kept doing it privately. Right now, it proved to be quite useful too, otherwise, he’d probably die of boredom, he could hardly do something more “manly” here in the middle of the ocean like practice his fencing or something.

“Is it true what they said? Did you really shoot him in the face?”

Hoffmann looked up from his little notebook and fought the urge to say something sarcastic along the lines of “Oh wonder! He speaks!”

“Weissberger. Did you really shoot him in the face?”

“Yes.”

He could have left it at that, he owed no one an explanation for it, least of all Tennstedt, but it felt wrong not to explain.  
“He was suffering. The bullets of the Erschießungskommando got him pretty bad, but he wasn’t dead. I- I couldn’t watch it.” Klaus half expected some dumb comment from Tennstedt about how soft and weak that was, but nothing of the like came.

“I’m glad”  
Well, that was unexpected. Hoffmann looked at his boatmate rather bewildered.  
The latter must have seen his confusion at the statement so he clarified:

“I’m glad you didn’t shoot him out of anger over his cowardice or something. Otherwise, I’d have had to fear you were going to throw me off-board once our rations ran low.”

The tenseness that had been hanging over them all day vanished suddenly and although it was completely inappropriate since they had just spoken of a man’s passing, neither of them could suppress the chuckles.

“Honestly, I thought you’d murder me first. You sure looked like you wanted to drown me this morning.” Klaus replied.

“I may have overreacted a bit. You scared me though, I thought I was being attacked.”

“I scared YOU? You looked like you were drowning! You gave me the shock of a lifetime!”

Perhaps it was the sun that was slowly turning their brains into melted puddles of goo, maybe the situation really was funny to them. Either way, their chuckles quickly turned into actual laughter, it felt almost familiar, the way they were both breathless and shaking, like little kids completely uncaring of their surroundings. Not even the dark clouds and booming thunder which soon filled the sky couldn’t dampen their mood. They were ecstatic, really, when the first rain set in, within minutes they were soaked to the bone but they didn’t mind and continued grinning from one ear to the other.  
Like Honigkuchenpferde.


	6. Starke Emotionen lösen Kurzschlussreaktionen aus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes are the windows to the soul. But they can also be windows to a forgotten memory. And sometimes one should think before speaking, words can hurt.

The storm continued raging on all night, but they made it through without overturning.

As an added benefit to their joyful time and somewhat involuntary shower, they were able to replenish their fresh water supply with the rain. [Children, please, avoid drinking rainwater, only do so if absolutely necessary like it is here! There’s shit you really don’t want to ingest in there! This has been a PSA, thank you very much.]

However, neither of them had slept even a minute throughout the night, fearing they’d drown if the boat did overturn at some point, and they were consequently exhausted by the time the first rays of sunlight appeared over the horizon. The dark clouds had long handed over the stage to the beautiful spectacle of sunrise with its bright colours and warmth. Hoffmann and Tennstedt could hardly appreciate it though, their eyes had grown tired and the now soft, even motion of the waves was rocking them to sleep quickly.

When the Kaleun awoke, surprisingly rather well-rested, the sun had already moved way past high noon. The 1WO was still fast asleep and Hoffmann tried to make as little noise as possible to not disturb his peaceful snoozing. In lack of communicational possibilities, he decided to scan the horizon for any sign of land. As expected though, there was nothing to be seen but water, not even a ship or plane anywhere in the endless blue.

Instead of dwelling on the hopelessness of their situation though, he turned his attention back to the little notepad that had, miraculously, stayed dry throughout the whole storm.

About an hour and one highly detailed stilllife of a water bottle later he looked back up from his notebook and found Tennstedt still sleeping, and he was about to return to the drawing in his hands when he noticed that something about the 1WO had changed. Where the man slept so peacefully earlier, he now looked tense, pale, small droplets of sweat had formed on his forehead. His chest rose quickly, his breathing was shallow and uneven. He looked awful (health wise, not in general! The man wasn’t an eyesore for sure.)

Had Tennstedt contracted Klaus’s sickness? Hopefully not.

Without giving it much thought the Kaleun scooted over to the sleeping man, carefully cradling his head to feel for a fever. To his surprise, he found that Tennstedt wasn’t very hot (temperature-wise), quite cool really, so it likely wasn’t the cold Hoffmann had had.

Maybe the man was having a nightmare then? It certainly didn’t fit the strong soldier image Tennstedt always presented, it felt almost strange to see him so vulnerable, but Hoffman had learned over the course of the past two days that the man wasn’t quite as cold and emotionless as he was seen by others and even the best, toughest of soldiers could develop shellshock. Perhaps that’s also what the small pill he took were for, Klaus had seen Tennstedt take one when he thought he wasn’t being watched. Carefully he felt through the sleeping man’s pockets and quickly found a little tube, taking a good look at it, he recognized it. Pervitin. No, that was not medicine, he was absolutely not giving him that. The stuff was absolutely awful and would only make the situation worse in the long run, god forbid Tennstedt developed an addiction to it. [Bless his soul he doesn’t know, but please, never take someone off a drug cold turkey! This is my fic so shits gonna go well, but it might not in real life! This has been PSA 2, thank you very much.]

It was a Kurzschlussreaktion really, and Hoffmann knew the 1WO would never have allowed it in a waking state (he’d probably use his fists to demonstrate just how much he didn’t want it) but Klaus pulled the man's head into his lap nevertheless. Although the 1WO’s head was quite heavy (Dickschädel eben) it wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable weight, he tried to be as gentle as possible to avoid waking his sleeping boatmate.

Carefully he dabbed away the sweat with his handkerchief and started absentmindedly combing through the dark hair that had fallen into disarray.

Somehow, he must have fallen into a sort of trance, because when he snapped out of it, he realized he’d started to gently massage the other man’s scalp, softly running his fingers through the short hair at the side of the head, which was probably wildly inappropriate for him to do. It felt intimate in a way, much too intimate for him to be doing. They barely knew one another and he had previously been the man’s superior. It felt forbidden, taboo.

However, apparently, his care had been helping Tennstedt, because now that he’d stopped the man began shifting and tensing up again. What other option had he than to continue?

If he was honest, he also enjoyed it in a way, it felt nice to thread the soft hair between his fingers, he couldn’t deny that. The touch was comfortable, home-y, warmth flooding upwards his arms and ebbing away somewhere in his chest. Klaus felt light, light enough to float away with the wind any second now. Probably the hunger, they hadn’t eaten much and he really wasn’t looking forward to that hard and chewy bread they had been given.

The relaxed expression that had settled on Tennstedt’s face suited him much better than the ice-cold glare he usually wore. His features, although still defined, looked softer, warmer, more alive.

Less like the marble statue of a Greek god, and more like a baroque painting.

He’d had that thought before.

Why and when had he had that thought? Klaus had no idea.

Whilst he was still reminiscing about that déja-vu, he felt a shifting under his hands and suddenly he stared into a pair of steel-blue eyes.

His brain shifted into AK*.

Hoffmann wanted to jump up, push Tennstedt off of him (for some reason the situation only became embarrassing to him NOW) but he wasn’t able to move a single muscle.

All he could do was stare into that oceanic Blaugrau.

Windows to the soul some called them, and he could only agree. They were much more than just body parts.

It felt like he was going to get lost in them, fall in, never to resurface again. Gosh, that sounded like a silly cliché, straight from one of those awful romance novels, but it was true. There was a calmness creeping into him, almost threateningly calm. In mythology sirens often lured sailors to follow them into the dangerous waters with their songs and beauty. The Kaleun had always thought that ridiculous, why would anyone ever go to certain death for a woman’s allure. But he understood now, he’d follow those eyes anywhere.

Somehow the ocean that hid behind Tennstedt’s lashes was able to wash away everything in Hoffmann’s head.

Worries.

Thoughts.

Blockades.

All but one thing.

One thing it didn’t wash away, rather the waves uncovered it like a buried treasure.

He gasped.

“It wasn’t Fräulein Strasser.”

Hearing those words out loud, although he’d uttered them himself, surprised him more than they probably should have. The man still lying in his lap seemed surprised too, if it was at the words said or just at the sudden speaking in general wasn’t clear.

Either way, Tennstedt’s soft eyes grew harsh again and, with incredible speed, he brought as much distance between them as possible on their small rubber boat.

It took Hoffmann another good few minutes until he had finally put all the newly acquired puzzle pieces in the right places. Once there was finally a clear image of that fateful evening, he returned his attention to Tennstedt.

He found the latter huddled away in the furthest most corner, almost like an injured animal in a trap.

“Why were you disappointed I didn’t remember? If anything, it was better for you, I could’ve gone to the police.”

It came out with more gall than he had intended and left a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

“You were drunk but you didn’t seem to mind. You reciprocated, if I may remind you. Why would you have called the police, huh?”, was the reply spat at him.

“THAT IS IT! You wanted to BLACKMAIL ME! UNFORTUNATELY, you can’t blackmail someone with something they don’t remember!”

Hoffmann really hadn’t meant to yell, but he couldn’t help the anger welling up in him and it wasn’t like anyone was going to hear them. This was the foulest of things to do. Putting someone in an uncomfortable situation and then blackmailing them for personal gain. Not once did it occur to him that it might have been a genuine interest in repeating the kiss that sparked the disappointment, for whatever reason that was completely out of the question for him.

“Blackmail.”

Tennstedt’s voice was hoarse, on the verge of cracking.

“You only think the absolute worst of me, don’t you? That I want to get rid of you, kill you, blackmail you. I was drunk, it was a TINY moment of weakness, and you’re out here screaming BLOODY MURDER! Like I willingly gave you syphilis just to ruin YOUR life! I get it, you were drunk and would never do that sober, been there done that. Don’t worry this isn’t fucking contagious.”

The 1WO sounded pained, but the text seemed almost rehearsed, like he’d said it a million times before.

Hoffmann was honestly baffled by what the 1WO had just thrown at his head and it took him a moment to really make sense of what exactly Tennstedt had just said. But the man wasn’t done yet.

“I tried to fucking PROTECT YOU FROM THAT ASSHOLE WRANGEL, but no, KARL TENNSTEDT IS SO COLD AND EVIL! HE’S AN ABOMINATION, A SINNER, GOD’S BIGGEST MISTAKE SO IT’S ALRIGHT TO STOMP ON HIM, PUSH HIM AROUND! I’M NOT FUCKING PROUD OF IT, BUT IT IS WHAT IT IS. IS IT SO DAMN HARD TO BELIEVE I HAVE FEELINGS TOO?”

He was shaking now, Hoffmann thought to see, no he really saw, small trickles of tears running down the man's perfectly sculpted cheekbones and getting caught in the stubble that had grown over the last few days.

Hoffmann desperately wanted to say something, anything, but his throat was drier than the fucking Sahara.

“That’s what I fucking thought. Der feine Herr, too good for us people, huh? Come on, punch me, I know you want to.”

But Klaus didn’t want to, he really didn’t.

“It’s YOUR fucking fault we’re out here anyway!”

Ok maybe he wanted to punch Tennstedt a bit, but he refrained from it. A fistfight here wouldn’t end well.

“MY FAULT? HOW THE FUCK IS IT MY FAULT YOU’RE HERE? You could’ve agreed to ANY of the ways Wrangel proposed to get rid of me! You wanted to be captain so bad, why didn’t you, huh? YOU HAD THE FUCKING CHANCE! Were you hoping my dad would give you a medal for bringing me home? HEADS UP, ASCHGESICHT, MY OLD MAN DOES NOT GIVE A SHIT IF I SURVIVE! HELL, HE’S PROBABLY GLAD I DIED “HEROICALLY” BECAUSE HE FINALLY HAS A REASON TO BE PROUD OF ME FOR ONCE!”

He felt how hot his face had gotten, and how sticky.

Great, now he was crying too.

Just perfect.

“YOU COULD HAVE JUST SUNKEN THAT FUCKING SHIP AND ALL WOULD HAVE BEEN WELL!”

“YES, DEFINITELY! DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID OR SOMETHING? THEY WOULD HAVE SUNKEN US! IT WAS A FUCKING TRAP! EVEN if we had made it out, the crew WOULD STILL HAVE SET ME AFLOAT! THE REASON YOU ARE HERE IS YOUR OWN FUCKING FAULT! I would have been JUST FINE alone. THEN I ATLEAST WOULDN’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH YOUR CONSTANT BITCHING!”

It was a lie, he knew. Hoffmann was glad to have the 1WO with him, but it had slipped out in his anger.

Tennstedt didn't reply, just stared at him, defeated, somehow looking even more hurt.

Practically destroyed.

The Kaleun wanted to apologize as soon as he realized the effect his words had had on the man, but the 1WO decided the conversation was over before he even had the chance to get out the plainest “sorry”.

Whether it was because of their fight, he wasn’t sure, but suddenly the sunset had lost all of its calming magic. The orange and red seemed too bright, the reflections on the water were too aggressive, even the up and down of the waves wasn’t soft anymore.

The ocean seemed to be mocking him.

Hoffmann felt nauseous.

He wondered why they had bothered to hold onto their lives for that long (it had only been three days, but to him, it felt like an eternity). It was useless, their fight, or rather his anger, had helped in de-fogging his brain and made it abundantly clear. (Or perhaps, the madness that inevitably started creeping up on someone in their situation had finally started to set in.)

They were going to die anyway; he was sure of it. And honestly, he’d prefer to choose himself when he has to go, and how.

Ideally, he had hoped to die of old age one day, peacefully in his sleep, but that dream was no longer achievable in his eyes. He was going to die of dehydration, somewhere in the Atlantic, one of the largest bodies of water ironically, aged 24. (A quarter maybe, of the age he’d hoped to reach.)

Often Klaus had thought about the fate of those men whose U-Boot was critically hit, the subs that never resurfaced, water flooding the hull before it even reached the seafloor.

Had thought about how scary it was, how much it hurt. At least they had guns, though, and could end it fast. But those unlucky souls who drowned…

He had learned that reflex not to let any water in was incredibly strong.

Strong enough to keep you from breathing in right until that moment when your vision starts getting hazy, the blackness creeping inwards from the corners of your eyes until you lose consciousness.

From his own experience, he knew how uncomfortable even the smallest amounts of water entering the lungs were. To imagine them filling up with 6 maybe 7 litres, until there wasn’t enough oxygen in the blood to supply the brain anymore, until the heart finally stopped beating?

The pain must be agonizing.

But then again, slowly perishing from dehydration, dahinsiechen, over several days, seemed worse. Dried out like a bog mummy, or those Egyptian pharaohs.

It was dark out here, no artificial lights anywhere, only the moon and stars illuminating the ocean's surface.

The Kaleun was just about able to make out the silhouette of his sleeping boatmate in the pale moonlight.

The moon looked stunning, closer somehow.

He couldn't help but wonder, would humanity ever set foot on it?

Surely not in his lifetime.

Hoffmann pulled out his little notebook once again, quickly scribbling down on it.

He hoped his writing wasn’t completely illegible.

Carefully he placed it next to Tennstedt and stood up with shaking legs.

The waves didn’t particularly facilitate his endeavour, but that was ok, he didn’t need to stand for long.

With one last gaze up to the stars, he closed his eyes.

And leaned backwards.

For a moment it felt like he was flying, like he’d be falling forever.

Then the cold waves took hold of him, enveloping his body in their unexplored depths.

\---------------------------------

_Es tut mir leid._

_KH_


	7. Anstrengungen erhöhen die Körpertemperatur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do they ever not fight? Maybe, but not in my story!

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a bright light.

Was this heaven?

Klaus had never expected to end up there of all places, he’d done plenty bad things in his (rather short) time, committed enough sins for more than one person, surely enough to reserve him a nice little place in hell.

But then again, he didn’t necessarily believe in God or an afterlife.

No, this wasn’t heaven.

Hoffmann’s eyes slowly adjusted to the blinding brightness and he found himself staring into the endless blue sky above him.

He wasn’t lying on a cloud.

He was in a rubber boat.

In that damned rubber boat.

He was alive.

Most definitely alive, judging by the burning sensation in his throat and lungs.

Gradually feeling trickled back into his body, or most of his body anyway. He couldn’t feel his right arm, something heavy was lying on it, cutting off or at least reducing circulation and making it feel numb.

A cough was creeping up in his throat, he turned onto his side to the best of his abilities, letting it out. It felt thick, uncomfortable, and took several attempts to get rid of, once he did though, he wasn’t surprised to find water, seawater more precisely, in his mouth.

He had no problems remembering this night whatsoever, at least up to the moment he passed out obviously, and he felt a lot better than one might expect after nearly drowning.

How exactly Tennstedt had managed to get both of them back into the boat (judging by the wetness of the other man's clothing he had jumped into the water too) was puzzling to Hoffmann, but he was impressed. A limp body was (or at least felt) noticeably heavier, especially in soaking wet clothes.

Tennstedt had, and Klaus hated to admit it, saved his life once again. The man really was incredibly stubborn.

Deep down in his gut he felt unbelievably guilty, he’d been a real asshole yesterday and then tried to flee their fate, leaving the man to fend for himself, but still, the 1WO had, once again, risked his own life to save him. The weight atop his arm suddenly began to shift, Tennstedt had lain down on it, likely to prevent Hoffmann from trying to jump off the boat again as soon as he regained consciousness.

He really would have liked to sit up, but although slowly feeling was returning into his numb arm, the stirring 1WO hadn’t quite released it yet.

Instead, Klaus turned his head to face his “saviour” who was already intently, and quite angrily, staring at him.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Hoffmann.” He wanted to argue, out of reflex, but stopped himself, the man was right after all.

“Where’d you even get that idea, huh? Jumping off the bloody boat in the middle of the fucking night like a coward.”

“I feel like you’re going to quote my father at me again. How Aussichtslosigkeit isn’t a fact.” It was an attempt at lightening the mood.

It didn’t work.

Tennstedt still looked furious.

“I- it’s just…” The words didn’t quite want to come out. “After yesterday’s argument, I thought…”

What exactly had he thought? He wasn’t able to say what it was, wasn’t able to convey the hopelessness he’d felt. Somehow it had been a logical conclusion, they were good as dead, their supplies would run out and they’d perish, slowly, painfully. Perhaps he thought he’d at least be able to buy Tennstedt some more time as an apology, stretching the water for a few more days, although it probably would have been pointless.

“You actually thought? Unbelievable.” Hoffmann wanted to chuckle at that, but the 1WO’s expression advised him not to.

“Thought what, exactly, huh? That I’d appreciate you throwing yourself into the fucking ocean after I put my own goddamn life on the line to keep you alive? Do you think this is fun to me, bastard?”

“Yea, I didn’t think of that.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“Will you let go of my arm now?”

“No?!”

“I need to piss.” That was a big, fat lie, but it was worth a try.

“I don’t care.”

“Should I pee on you then?”

“I’ll personally rip your dick off if you even dare to try.”

“Then let me go.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll do it. I’m peeing on you, man.”

“Go ahead.”

“Oh, so you’re just waiting to see my dick or something?” Hoffmann cringed the second the words left his mouth.

He should NOT have said that.

“WHAT?!” Tennstedt rose, his face even more livid than before. He could have been Stalin and the man wouldn’t have looked more pissed off.

“Do you think you’re so great, so attractive everyone just absolutely wants to get in your pants? That just because we’ve been out here for a few days I’m desperate enough to want to fuck you, huh? I’d like some of your confidence, you seem to have some to spare, Milchbubi!”

“No, that’s not, I-,“ Hoffmann stuttered, also sitting up whilst rubbing the life back into his newly freed arm.

“That’s not what you meant? Tell me then, what WERE you trying to say?”

“I didn’t want to say anything! It just, kind of, slipped out?”

“Aha, so you didn’t want to say it. But you still thought it!”

“So WHAT? Huh? What’s your problem with me?” He felt yesterday’s anger welling up in his chest again. “Whatever I do, it’s never right! I don’t sink a ship; you complain and start a mutiny.” Hoffmann knew that Wrangel had started it, but that was hardly important right now, and it wouldn’t have helped in proving his point. “You have the chance to get rid of me, twice!, but you refuse to, twice!. Instead, you get all pissy and blame me for your misery again. May I remind you, my dear, that just yesterday you complained to me about how I didn’t just up and let go of the fact that you fucking KISSED me, but now you’re absolutely refusing to forget about ONE LITTLE THING I SAID. ARE YOU THE ONLY ONE WHO’S ALLOWED TO MAKE MISTAKES?”

Tennstedt didn’t reply, he just directly stared at Hoffmann. His eyes were dark, jaw clenched, his whole body tense, similarly to a cat preparing to attack.

Mentally, Hoffmann was prepared for anything, being punched, insulted, dunked into the water. He saw movement across from him and closed his eyes out of reflex, bracing for impact.

In a swift movement the 1WO had lunged forward and now Klaus was waiting for hands around his throat or possibly punches raining down on his face.

None of the like came though. It felt like time had slowed down, or perhaps his brain was simply lagging behind, but Klaus was certain at least a minute had passed already and he was still waiting for some sort of impact.

When it finally came though, it almost threw him backwards. Tennstedt crashed into him, hard, and he was sure he tasted blood on his lip.

But what he currently felt, pressed against his mouth, wasn’t knuckles.

The contact was way too long for an aimed punch, and usually one would aim for the nose or an eye, maybe the jaw, but straight into the mouth? No, not a very common target.

It wasn’t the rough skin of a hand, not the cold, almost sticky feeling of leather gloves either. No, this was much softer. Warm, wet, tasted of iron (his blood, he supposed).

And it seemed to fit against his mouth perfectly.

It was another pair of lips.

To say he melted into it wouldn’t be the appropriate description in that situation. There was no real gentleness to the kiss, it wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t romantic. It was more like electricity, like lightning running down his spine. It was rough, it was aggressive, it was hungry.

They were tearing into one another like wild beasts that had been starving for days (not literally, of course, they weren’t actually trying to EAT each other). Tennstedt had grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and for a moment he thought the seams would give in if the man pulled just a bit harder. Hoffmann himself had buried his fingers in the 1WO’s short hair, holding on as if his life depended on it, tugging ever so often and coaxing low moans from the man’s throat.

He couldn’t suppress the moans either when Tennstedt let go of his lips and attacked every reachable part of his neck instead. His breath was hot against the sensitive skin. There was barely any wind now, the sun burning down on them, as always, no clouds in sight.

Hoffmann felt his own body temperature rising, there were definitely too many layers of clothing here. It took no real convincing, merely a gentle pull and Tennstedt’s jacket came off, his own following suit.

Although he quite enjoyed being on the receiving end of the 1WO’s thorough care, he was quickly starting to get bored of being merely a canvas for the man’s art of small purple bruises left by the repeated sucking and biting. With a firm hand placed on the other man’s chest, he pushed him against the stiff walling of their lifeboat, putting himself on top instead. He may not be able to keep command over a crew of fifty-odd men, but achieving dominance over one man was child’s play to him.

Especially if that man so happened to be Karl Tennstedt, where the man had been uncommendable and resistant before he was butter between Klaus’ fingers now.

Judging by the pressure he felt against his ass, the 1WO seemed to be enjoying this change of pace, unless of course, the crew had left him with a gun in his pocket. He’d let his head roll back, eyes shut, droplets of sweat glueing dark strands of hair to his forehead.

Well, that was unacceptable, Hoffmann was putting on such a nice show and Tennstedt wasn’t even looking!

Quite roughly he grabbed the man’s jaw with one hand and forcing it up again. “Don’t you dare look away.”

The dark glare in Tennstedt’s eyes was a sight to behold.

“Yes sir.” His voice, low and hoarse as he spoke, fingers digging deep into Klaus’ hips. He felt the eagerness, the hunger, practically radiating off the 1WO, skin on fire, longing for contact. Without hesitation he grabbed the man’s jumper, pulling it upwards and urging him to slip it off. Tennstedt complied immediately, tearing it off as if he’d waited to get rid of it all his life and returning his hands to rest back on Hoffmann’s hips, venturing ever so slightly upwards to slide under the many layers of wool and cotton (it wasn’t actually very many, three in total, but that was too many right now).

It was quite clear the 1WO wanted more, more skin, more contact, so why not drag it out a little longer? He already was desperate, why not turn him into a begging mess?

Hoffmann swatted the man’s hands away and, almost painfully slow, pulled up the heavy knit.

The second it was off he was pushed onto his back, Tennstedt crawling on top of him, Jesus that man was impatient!

Although he too wanted to finally go further this kind of misbehaviour was not acceptable. The 1WO had leaned down to kiss him once again but was now met with a firm grip against his throat.

“Not like this, young man.” He pushed against the hand, trying to get lower, but the fingers only tightened.

“Are you going to behave?”

No reply came.

Hoffmann pressed a little harder, Tennstedt’s eyes glossy and half shut.

“Yes sir.”

He flipped them over again, grabbing Tennstedt’s wrists and pinning them over his head with one hand. With his other hand he carefully traced along the collar if the 1WO’s shirt, he was still wearing the Ritterkreuz, it rested heavily in Hoffmann’s palm. Back home they would be shot for what they were doing right now, the cold metal suddenly felt hot, burning itself into his skin. He pushed it aside and started unbuttoning Tennstedt’s shirt instead.

The thin fabric of his undershirt which was now sticking to the 1WO’s body left little to the imagination, the man was built like a Greek god whose name Hoffmann couldn’t remember for the life of him, not as long as he felt the firm muscle under him and Tennstedt was staring at him from under his lashes like THAT. His eyes pleading, utterly helpless, melting like ice cream in his hands.

No, there definitely wasn’t enough blood in his brain for thinking right now.

Punishment be damned, Klaus was getting impatient too, he needed more right now.

Hoffmann let go of the man’s wrists and pulled him up into a sloppy kiss instead, letting Tennstedt’s hands make quick work of the many buttons on his shirt and shrugging it off hastily. He couldn’t help but sigh as he felt hot breath against the sensitive skin of his collarbones, the stubble on the 1WO’s chin scratchy, his lips gentle, his teeth not as much, even less the fingers that were practically digging into his back.

Klaus let his head fall against the firm shoulder, panting hard, what was that about being in control? He was completely melted, or his brain at least, his cock was rock hard and his pants way too tight. All he could do now was grasp Tennstedt’s short hair like it was his lifeline, trying to keep his grip on reality.

It was a tangle of limbs, it was sweaty and messy, hot and sticky.

It was everything Klaus Hoffmann despised about sex.

But currently, he couldn’t even tell apart up and down, he really did not care in the least. All that mattered to him at this moment was, that it better not end any time soon.

Some of the crew from the U-612 compared an orgasm to shooting off a torpedo and having it hit the target perfectly, sinking an enemy in one try, but that didn’t even come close to the ecstasy which was coursing through his veins right now.

Not even the strongest psychedelic drug would be able to induce a haze that pushed him over the edge as Karl Tennstedt did, his vision white and his brain fuzzy.

When it was over, they collapsed into one another, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat.

It took them a while to recover enough to redress, but once they did, they did so fast. Either the wind had set in recently or they simply hadn’t noticed before, but it was ice cold against their exposed skin and left them shivering.

Hoffmann had never gotten dressed so quickly in his life, this type of weather forcing him down from his post-coital high really hadn’t been necessary, but he didn’t particularly fancy the idea of catching a second round of pneumonia either, thank you very much.

Once he looked presentable again, surprisingly none of their clothes had gone overboard, he wondered if he should say anything to Tennstedt about what had just happened. It wasn’t every day that he slept with someone he was barely acquainted with someone other people would call an enemy even.

However, the other man had already given in to his exhaustion, making the decision for Klaus.

As much as he would have liked to admire the sleeping man’s relaxed expression, his after-sex glow, he felt himself getting drowsy too, the adrenaline finally wearing out and forcing his eyes shut.


	8. Wärme erleichtert das Einschlafen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These people have seriously good eyes, I am jealous. The ocean is really really big and I can barely read a clock on the wall.

It was long before sunrise when Hoffmann woke up, he was still tired, exhausted really. As much as he would have liked to back to sleep though, he found himself unable to, he was absolutely freezing his balls off.

The wind had picked up in both velocity and intensity, the temperature had plummeted close to zero. He could almost see small the clouds as he breathed out and the cold air stung in his lungs.

Although their jackets were windproof and the layered clothing provided some warmth, the coldness still crept into his bones, numbing his fingers, it felt like he was standing butt naked somewhere in the permafrost. Those poor bastards in Russia, hopefully their jackets were a little thicker.

No matter how hard he tried to heat up, rubbing his limbs to encourage increased circulation, curling up as small as possible, nothing really helped. If only he had some sort of portable heater or something.

His eyes landed on the sleeping Tennstedt next to him, he was equally shivering, limbs tucked closely to his body.

Oh.

He scooted closer.

“What’re you doing?” The 1WO’s voice was sluggish.

Hoffmann wrapped one arm around his waist.

“Sharing body heat is one of the most effective ways for staying warm.” Chest to back.

“If you say so, Herr Superschlau.”

Tennstedt was quite obviously too cold and too tired to argue right now, and maybe, just maybe he also enjoyed it a tiny bit (he would never admit that, of course).

If it really was all that effective, Hoffmann had no idea, but it certainly was extremely comfortable and very warming, not just physically.

Humans are social animals, they need touch, physical contact, to survive, else they go insane. The fuzzy feeling in his stomach was a completely normal reaction, especially since he hadn’t had a good soft hug in a while, and had nothing to do with whom he was holding in his arms. They were both touch starved, well, starved of soft, gentle touch. The last time he’d let his mother hug him was well over a year ago. Yes, a completely normal reaction, no feelings involved here.

He buried his head in the 1WO’s shoulder, breathing in his scent. He could’ve said something romantic and flowery, like, Tennstedt smelled of home, masculine. But the reality was, they both needed a bath, the sweat still lingering on them. Yet it felt reassuring, comforting.

Hoffmann practically drowned in the sensation, not the panicked drowning in rough waves pulling you under, it was more like slowly sinking into warm honey, sickly sweet caramel flooding his lungs, amber tree sap enveloping him like an insect in Bernstein. Sleep took him easily.

When he awoke in the morning, eyes still closed, it took him a moment to orient himself. Hoffmann was clasping the front of Tennstedt’s jacket in his hands like a lifeline and Tennstedt had placed his hand in an equally firm but also gentle grip on the Kaleun’s hip.

Otters held onto one another when sleeping on the water, to avoid drifting apart in the currents. But they weren’t otters, otherwise they’d have to start gifting each other pretty rocks to smash open shells soon. (Humans aren’t that different in this department either, jewellery is nothing but pretty rocks, although it probably shouldn’t be used to open canned food.) That was completely off-topic though, this wasn’t a class in Zoology, what he was realizing here was that the 1WO

Klaus was scared to open his eyes, fearing he was still dreaming and the sensation would disappear once he actually woke up, he hated to admit it, but he really enjoyed the feeling, the heat, the electricity-like buzzing under his skin, streaming throughout his body from where the 1WO’s hand lay.

It was irrational to think the warmth would disappear, Tennstedt was likely still fast asleep (Hoffmann had always been the first to wake up for the last few days). Otherwise, he’d surely have pulled away too, the sun had already risen, Hoffmann felt the first rays tingling on his face. The winds had slowed again too, there really wasn’t a need to stay so close anymore.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

And was met with bottomless blue.

Tennstedt, Karl (it felt weird on his tongue for some reason. They had slept with one another, god damnit, they really should be on first name basis, shouldn’t they?) was, in fact, awake and made no effort to let go.

How long exactly they had just lain there in silence, he couldn’t say (had he checked his watch or looked at the change in the suns position he could probably have pinpointed it rather precisely, but that would not have been as ominous and poetic, he was far too lazy for that too), but it hardly mattered anyway. Time, like other things, had lost its meaning out here somehow. There was no routine anymore, no deadlines to meet. All the day was divided up into was hours of waking and sleeping. It had only been four or five days, for all he knew Germany could have already won the war, or lost it for that matter, it really did not matter in the least. This was their little world now, a few square meters of rubber floating in the ocean, water all around them and nothing but endless skies above.

The 1WO’s eyes looked calm, melancholic in a way. Doubtful. Hypnotic, Klaus couldn’t have looked away, even if he’d wanted to. Very carefully he let his fingers brush over the man’s cheekbone, ghosting over the stubble on his skin, along the sharp jawline, all the way to his slightly parted lips. In that moment there was nothing he wanted to do more than feel that gentle mouth on his, slowly, with none of the haste and anger their previous kisses had carried. His fingers had wandered back to Tennstedt’s neck, drawing small circles and combing through the short hair, mere centimetres between their faces, close enough for him to feel the mans breathing as the air flowed across his face.

It was as if Tennstedt was telepathic (or maybe he had merely had the same idea), he pulled Hoffmann closer connecting their lips softly.

This time, he did melt into it, like ice cream on a summer’s day, running over your hand and dripping onto sandy grounds, like a piece of chocolate in a cup of hot milk during an autumnal thunderstorm, like the thin layer of snow on the fields under early spring’s sunshine.

The flowers which bloomed in his stomach would have made a royal gardener jealous, and they certainly attracted hundreds of jittery and joyful butterflies. Had they been standing; his knees would surely have given in under him.

The intensity of their previous kisses had been wonderful, but it couldn’t compare to **this.** It was much slower, yes, less hungry, but it lacked none of the passion. He dared not call it by its name, what had connected them before had been lust, but it was something different now. (It started with an L too, but ended on E.)

What a sap he had turned into.

As much as both of them would have wanted to stay there all day, they weren’t kids anymore, Hoffmann’s body was begging him for a good stretch.

Although the temperature had immensely increased since last night it was still nowhere near summery, the water was **very** cold, but the quick swim was refreshing. After days of mostly sitting around without much physical exercise, he felt joyous to even just make rounds around their boat. Seawater wasn’t exactly very sanitary and the salt certainly stung on the sunburnt skin of his face, it was better than nothing either way, getting all the built-up sweat out of his pores and for the first time since they had been put in that lifeboat, he actually felt not only clean but also hopeful.

Tennstedt had been hesitant, as if he was afraid of drowning, and it took a lot of convincing to get him into the water (“You stink, damnit, get in the fucking water before I pull you in clothed.”), and soap would surely have done a better job at getting them clean (there was a distinct smell of salt and algae on them now) but simply staying sweaty was not an option either.

“Do you see that?”

They were still drying off in the warm sun when the 1WO spotted something off in the distance. Hoffmann did see it; it was a small dark spot on the horizon.

A small dark spot that was gradually getting bigger.

A small dark spot that looked suspiciously like a ship.

Once they overcame their stupor they dressed hastily (they may or may not have accidentally swapped some articles of clothing) and gathered their belongings together. Somehow Tennstedt’s Ritterkreuz landed in Hoffmann’s hands again. It felt heavy, heavier than it should be, heavier than it had been before. It was merely a piece of metal, but it seemed to concentrate the weight of their lives, their past, everything into the palm of his hand. The ship, near enough to identify it, was American. Hochseefischer. Civilians. The two of them would have to become different people if they wanted help. This tiny cross made from German iron was definite proof of their parentage, if anyone saw it, they would be trapped in their lie.

Enemies.

Freiwild.

The easiest solution would have been to just throw it behind him, letting it sink to the bottom of the ocean where so many young men lay, who would have died to wear it (they had died, sunken, but most of them without ever having touched one). Tennstedt hadn’t yet noticed its absence.

“Of course it had to be Americans.” The 1WO snarled, he was most unhappy with the situation. “I’m not fucking begging Americans for help.” His angry lamenting pulled Hoffmann back into reality.

“Oh, would you like to wait for a German ship? Let’s sit back down, I’m sure there will be one coming soon.”

For a moment Tennstedt looked like he was believing what Hoffmann had just said.

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Nooo.”

“They are the enemy!”

“Look, I am not fucking dying out here because of you stubborn dipshit. The Führer isn’t coming in his private Yacht to save you. Do you want to survive?”

Tennstedt said nothing.

“Glad we could solve that. Now start waving before they miss us.”

They were lucky, the crew took them on board without hesitation, not a single person with military knowledge among them.

Usually, the middle-aged captain with a big grey beard and strong eyebrows, told them, they did not venture out this far but today the weather had been nice and the fish closer by the coast didn’t want to bite.

To the inevitable question of how they had wound up in that situation in the first place, Hoffmann told a story about them being swiss businessmen and had been on their way home from the states when their ship was hit by a German torpedo. Tennstedt stayed mostly quiet, only throwing in a stray few word of agreement in broken English ever so often. It was evident he found it hard to follow the conversation, Hoffmann would have to do a lot of translating until they got home.

They were given food and water, as well as the spare cot for rest. It would take two more days before they returned to the mainland.

The bed was entirely too small for two grown men to sleep in, they decided to sleep in shifts, Hoffmann would stay up for the remainder of the day, helping out and talking to the crew, whilst Tennstedt got some sleep. The 1WO didn’t say it, but it was clear he wasn’t too eager to hang around a bunch of tough seamen he couldn’t understand, the idea that one of them would always be awake to wake and warn the other seemed to relax him though. In his eyes, Hoffmann was way too comfortable among the men, making light chitchat, they were only civilians, yes, but they were still American which was reason enough for Tennstedt to be wary of them.

The Kaleun thought the best way to assure their safe return to mainland was to get to know the people around them, even if not all their values aligned. (Klaus’d learned the hard way that you had to get along with the people around you somehow and he definitely did not want to spend another night in a fucking lifeboat.) Pretending to like people really wasn’t that hard, he’d done it a million times, put on a smile and laugh politely. Every social gathering his father had taken him to, ballrooms filled with high-ranking military officers and important party members. Tennstedt barely knew that, his career was built in battle not on expensive Parkett over sickly sweet Champagne.

When Hoffmann returned to the sleeping quarters with the rest of the crew in the evening, he found Tennstedt sat in the cot picking at the hem of his (well, technically Hoffmann’s as he noticed) sweater and staring off into nothingness.

While the men got settled for the night, the 1WO grabbed his jacket and disappeared on deck without a word. He didn’t return until midnight, his footsteps woke Hoffmann from his relatively light sleep.

It was quite dark below deck but he could just about make out the 1WO’s figure restlessly pacing back and forth. Eventually, Karl (still felt weird) settled on the floor beside their cot, not once looking at the now wide-awake Kaleun.

“Verdammte Scheiße.” Tennstedt’s words came out choked and quiet, but still audible over the eery silence.

“Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße.”

With shaking hands, he fumbled at the buttons on his collar, trying but failing to open them.

Hoffmann watched him for a while, he was close enough to see the furrowed brows, clenched jaw, so tense his body started shivering, his breathing was shallow and ragged.

“Der Boden ist echt verdammt unbequem.“

Tennstedt turned his head fast enough for Klaus to fear he’d break his neck. Wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights, the man stared at him.

Carefully he opened the topmost button on Tennstedt’s shirt and placed one hand on Tennstedt's rapidly rising and falling chest.

“Atmen. Ein, 1, 2, 3, und aus. Ein, 1, 2, 3, und aus.“

The 1WO, although still visibly panicked, followed his lead and his breathing steadied.

“So, und jetzt rein hier.“

Hoffmann lifted the thin blanket they had been given. Tennstedt hesitated, as if in a stupor.

“Na wirds bald?”

It was evident he had barely closed an eye earlier and it stung Hoffmann to think that the man had sat on the cot with a similar sort of panic attack, completely alone, whilst he had been up on deck enjoying himself.

Finally, Tennstedt followed the invitation and crawled under the scratchy wool fabric.

The mattress was tiny and the sad excuse of a blanket barely covered both of them (not that they really needed it, it was decently warm in the room and the heat radiating off of their bodies was quite enough warmth) but they fit together well enough. It was comfortable in a way, the type of comfort that had little to do with your surroundings. Tennstedt relaxed noticeably, his stiff posture becoming more fluid as he buried his head in Hoffmann’s shoulder.

They were alive.

They were (somewhat) safe.

They were going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Act1! It will take me another few days, probably, until I'm done with Chapter 9, but it is coming soon, I promise! I hope you have enjoyed it so far, it certainly has been a lot of fun for me! <3


	9. Gewisse Gefühle führen zu Unsicherheit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smile can hurt more than a hundred words, especially if misinterpreted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2, here we go! The boys are finally in the States, what will they do now? I've switched perspectives for this part, as a sort of experiment, do let me know if I should keep it like that or if you'd prefer me writing from Hoffy's perspective again.
> 
> Now, have fun and see you soon!

Klaus Hoffmann was comfortable, way too comfortable given their circumstances.

They had barely landed at the harbour (Feindesland, mind you!) and Hoffmann, after grabbing his bag and excessively thanking the crew, was already urging him to take a walk along the beach. They were on foreign, unconquered soil and their main priority should have been their return home but the former Kaleun was behaving like a teenager on vacation. He tried to talk sense into the young man, Hoffmann insisted they take a walk on the beach, Karl vehemently argued they needed to find a ship that went somewhere, anywhere in Europe as soon as possible. He was not backing down from that; they weren’t here for fun.

About an hour later, he found himself trailing after a very content Hoffmann, shoes in hand and frolicking in the dunes. The only reason why he’d agreed, well maybe not agreed but stopped fighting against it rather, to this was that his English was simply too bad to get anywhere on his own and the former Kaleun had absolutely refused to do anything he asked unless he came along to the beach. Karl had tried to just stand back, sit on a bench and watch as the other man performed his silly little jumping around in the sand, but Hoffmann was having none of it and practically dragged him along. Somewhat begrudgingly he’d taken off his shoes too (there was really no reason to get sand in them) and followed Hoffmann. The wind here felt warmer and friendlier as it ruffled their hair and the sandy ground under his feet felt actually quite nice. Maybe the idea hadn’t been so bad after all. Tennstedt was so lost in thought he almost walked into Klaus, who had suddenly stopped to gaze out on the horizon. For days they had seen nothing else, and as pretty as the sunsets and sunrises looked, he’d grown tired of them after a while, but now, it looked different. They had firm ground under them, millions of people in close vicinity.

“We made it, Tennstedt, we actually made it!” The way Hoffmann’s face beamed it could compete with the sun as a source of warmth and light. As he mustered the man’s face Karl couldn’t fight the calmness washing over him like the waves that washed ashore in front of them, couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto his face. Never had he seen joy so genuine, eyes so bright and for a moment he thought he would die if they ever stopped glowing.

They were somewhere in the States, a beach in a foreign country, people all around them, anyone would be able to see them, but right now, maybe for the first time in his life, Karl did not care who saw him and what they thought of him. All he wanted to do was take Klaus’ hand, pull him close and thank whatever deity or fate or chance brought them here. He wanted to hold him, kiss his stupidly handsome face. Why exactly he so wished for that he couldn’t say, perhaps as a last hurrah, their intimacies would come to an end now that they had returned to civilisation. Mutually beneficial arrangements like that weren’t unheard of at the front, the desperation of war made many men vulnerable enough to look for comfort even in one another and he was sure this had been nothing but that. Hoffmann had been looking for some sort of comfort in a hopeless situation and now that they had overcome it, his comforting wasn’t needed any longer. That the former Kaleun was like him seemed out of the question for Karl.

A last Hurrah, a goodbye, that’s what the kiss would be, nothing else. When it came down to it, Karl’s cowardice almost made him hesitate for too long, Hoffmann had already turned away again, continuing along the shore, but Tennstedt just about caught his hand, holding him back.

With a gentleness he barely knew of himself he lifted the former Kaleun’s chin to meet his eyes and leaned ever so slightly forwards. Hoffmann seemed to understand wordlessly, meeting him halfway. There was no rush in their movement, and it almost broke Karl to think that this would be the last time he’d ever feel a pair of lips so perfect on his, feel Klaus gentle hand caress his cheek, rest their heads together.

What really broke him was the smile on Hoffmann’s face after they separated. Karl was sure that he too understood that this was an ending, Abschied, and still Klaus looked so incredibly happy as he stared across the ocean.

Karl Tennstedt didn’t cry. He was a strong soldier, not a soft little girl, he hadn’t cried when he had fallen out of the tree in his back garden and broken his arm, hadn’t cried the first time the other boys at school had bullied him and locked him in a toilet stall, hadn’t cried at his mother’s funeral. But this was already the second time Hoffmann had made him cry.

And as much as he hated the man for it, he knew he’d forgive him for it again and again too, even if he did it a million times.

Klaus had turned towards him once again, his smile faltering as he saw Tennstedt’s pained expression. Karl couldn’t help but think his worrisome gaze beautiful, sunlight dripping down his high cheekbones like honey, his melancholic eyes staring directly at him. Although the skin on his face was angrily red and sunburnt, Karl was sure he’d never seen such grace.

It was unnatural, his delight, ergötzen, not Hoffmann, although he seemed almost ethereal.

Tennstedt should not be feeling, thinking this, had he learned nothing?

_Sinful, unnatural, an abomination._

Sunsets were beautiful, flowers and landscapes, butterflies, art.

Klaus Hoffmann was not beautiful, had no right to be, not to him.

_Had no right to be._

_Had no right to be._

_Had no right to be._

Shake it off, shake it off, come on.

The former Kaleun noticed his tenseness, his obvious discomfort, eyeing him suspiciously.

Karl tried his best to give a smile, to assure the man everything was alright.

_Sinful, unnatural, abomination._

Hoffmann’s smile was unsure, small, but genuine. So very genuine.

_Had no right to be._

_Had no right to be._

“Let’s go, I know someone who can help us.”

New York, that’s were they were headed. Klaus absolutely refused to tell him who it was they were meeting, but Tennstedt had the creeping suspicion he wasn’t going to like their potential “saviour”. The trip from Maine all the way to New York was considerable and they had no money or real valuables they could sell, so he had absolutely no idea how they were going to get there. But then again, they had just travelled a remarkable amount of the Atlantic in a rubber boat, a few hundred kilometers on land seemed almost like nothing in comparison.

They had had the idea of getting on a train or bus, without a ticket obviously, as much as breaking the law didn’t sit right with Karl at least they would be cheating the Americans out of their fares, in the broadest sense it could even be classified as an act of war. However, they could under no circumstances be coming into close contact with the authorities or risk being arrested, or their cover would be blown. The crew had stopped asking about their identities pretty soon and accepted Klaus explanation that their papers had gone down along with their ship, but in an interrogation that simply wasn’t going to work. The truth was, they still had their papers as well as parts of their uniforms and should the police search them, they would find great amounts of proof of their nationalities.

As uncomfortable as it was, hitchhiking would be their best bet and the former Kaleun, with his best charming smile and friendly words, actually managed to find them a ride rather quickly. He had convinced a truck driver who just so happened to be going to New Haven to let them come along. They were immensely lucky, John told them, because usually his buddy Walt would be with him too but he’d gotten sick so now he had some space to spare in his truck. On foot, the journey would have taken them a good few days, thanks to John it barely took half a day (they’d still have to get from New Haven to New York, but that distance was remarkably shorter) and had the added benefit of John kindly sharing his coffee. Karl was hesitant to accept it at first but once Hoffmann convinced him he wasn’t going to get poisoned; he eagerly downed a cup.

The trucker seemed friendly enough, Tennstedt still couldn’t help but be suspicious of the man, he was an American after all, and found that, once again, Klaus was way too comfortable in their situation as he engaged in light conversation with their driver, about weather, war and whatnot Karl assumed. He only understood about half of what his former Kaleun said and even less of John, the man spoke in an awful accent (the way he slurred some of his words, Tennstedt feared the man was drunk and would crash them into the next ditch).

It was about an hour into their drive and the former 1WO was bored.

Extremely bored.

The landscape and cities which zoomed past them were a lot more interesting than the neverending ocean they had seen for the last few days, yes, but it still was incredibly dull to just stare out of a window for hours on end.

Beside him the other two men were still chatting away jollily, he’d long stopped trying to join in or even follow along. Never in his life had he needed English so he hadn’t bothered to learn it well, now he regretted few things as much as his nonchalance towards the language. But then again, if Hoffmann was right about this man they were going to meet and he really could help them get home he wouldn’t ever have to hear another English word ever again. If not, well. Karl hadn’t wanted to think much about the possibility that Hoffmann could be wrong and that they would have to stay in the States for longer, but should it come to that, he’d have no other option than to at least learn basic conversational skills.

“So, do y’all drive? Cause I’m getting pretty tired of sittin behind the wheel.”

Tennstedt had half dozed off when Klaus suddenly nudged his side.

“Huh?”

“Er fragt ob mal fahren kannst, ich hab keinen Führerschein und er ist müde.“

They had pulled into a gas station somewhere near a town called Hanover of all places (the Americans really were unoriginal with their names), John was out getting them more coffee and some doughnuts leaving the other two men behind. It took Karl a moment to understand what Hoffmann was asking him but ultimately agreed, much to John’s delight. After a moment of orientation, these American trucks really weren’t so different from German ones, they set off again. Basic directional commands were familiar to Tennstedt so Klaus had to do little translating and he found, although driving isn’t much more than staring out a window, himself quite content with his task.

Karl didn’t quite remember how the topic arose, but suddenly John was telling them about his friend who had emigrated to the States from Germany a few years back who had taught him some German, Hoffmann quickly spotted the rising tenseness in his companion as Tennstedt gripped the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to go white (the man John was speaking of was a Jew) and quickly tried to move on from the topic by saying they could teach him some more. Not long after (Karl’s mood visibly improved) they were singing German lullabies and nursery rhymes with the American.

“Your friend over there’s got a pretty good voice, he a singer?”

“Da hat er recht, hast du dir das mal überlegt?“

“Hab ich mir was überlegt?“

“Zu singen, so in nem Chor oder ner Band oder so?“

“Ich war als Kind im Kirchenchor, bis...“ He trailed off. It had been a lot of fun to sing in a choir, but he didn’t want to think back too much to that time. Of why they kicked him out.

_Sinful. Disgusting. Abomination._

It would be nice though, to sing again.

Maybe after the war.

After another few hours of driving, they finally reached their destination, the sun had already started to set colouring everything a warm amber.

It wasn’t likely the two of them would make it to New York today and they had already come clean with the fact that they would probably have to sleep on a park bench somewhere when John, once again jumped in and introduced them to another buddy of his (how many friends did this guy have? Were all Americans so extroverted?) who said they could stay at his flat for the night.

As much as Tennstedt wanted to decline, wanted to hate the Americans and their easy way of life, the prospect of a comfortable, safe place to sleep and an actual shower sounded heavenly.

Frank’s (he couldn’t help but think of the petty officer of the U-612, Strasser. How was he? Were they already back in La Rochelle?) apartment was small and he sincerely apologized they had to share his couch but after the days of torment at sea this seemed like the height of luxury. The way Hoffmann couldn’t stop thanking the man clearly showed they would have been happy to even just sleep on the carpet.

Karl couldn’t believe his ears when he got out of the shower and Klaus told him that their host was a bit of a new-tech fanatic and had not only a washing machine but also one of those new fancy electric dryers and that their clothes were currently in it. The shirts Frank gave them were a bit tight on Tennstedt and the pants were a tad bit too short (their host was of smaller stature than him, only a good 1,70m) but he wasn’t going to complain, he’d never appreciated the feeling of fresh clothes as much as he did right now. It was evident Karl wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the effect of a warm shower, Hoffmann took his sweet time in the bathroom, stepping out after a good half hour, towel slung low around his hips, damp hair falling in his face. Tennstedt was almost sure he knew what kind of effect he had, that he’d done that, looked like **that** , on purpose.

_Had no right to be._

_Had no right to be._

Shake it off, come on, it's just a guy coming out of the shower to get dressed.

_Have you learned nothing?_

Tennstedt looked away as quickly as possible, pressing his eyes shut.

“Alles in Ordnung?” Hoffmann’s voice showed not the slightest bit of embarrassment.

“Du must nicht extra wegschauen wie so ein peinlich berührter Jugendlicher.“ The couch dented as Klaus plopped down beside him, carefully Karl peaked over immediately putting a hand over his eyes.

“Jetzt zieh ne verdammte Hose an, du kannst doch nicht bei fremden Leuten so in der Wohnung rumlaufen.“

“Pfff, na gut. Dass gerade du das sagst...“

“Was soll das den bitte schon wieder heißen? Ich bin angezogen!“

He thought to hear a very quiet “Ich dachte du freust dich,”, he could have misheard that.

He probably misheard that.

But he was almost certain that this was an intricate plan at torture, perhaps to trick him, to embarrass him. Karl was stronger than that though, he was not going to give in, he was not going to be caught in a trap like that.

Not again.


End file.
